And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 13
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Wren felt immediately mortified. The both stopped dead and waited as the door opened. The flashlight beam shot inside, scanning around. She squinted as it hit her in the eyes and stayed there, blinding her.
Mike blew out an exasperated sigh, and then growled, "Oh for fuck's sake! Get lost!"
Wren was a bit surprised. She did not think that Mike would talk that way to a cop. Then, she heard the laughter.
The irritating flashlight beam was removed from her sight, leaving funny flares as she blinked. Through the spots in her vision, she was able to make out the forms of Billie Joe and Tré, leaning over the front seats. They were both grinning like mad.
"Way to kill the mood," she grumbled as she sat up.
"We weren't killing, we were improving," Tré corrected.
"No. You killed it." Mike crossed his arms. "See, there's its headstone, right under the seats."
"If this is what brothers are like," Wren commented, "I'm glad I don't have any." She paused then complained, "Why?"
"We thought you might like some company. After all, we were just playing here, and you guys drove up." Tré said.
"When you didn't come over to see us," Billie Joe elaborated, "I got worried about the condition of my back seat. Seems like we made it just in time."
Mike, irritated for obvious reasons, tried to strike him. Cheekily, Billie Joe ducked and stuck out his tongue. Taking the opportunity while he was occupied making a face, Wren easily smacked him upside the head. Tré immediately cowered, using the seat as a shield.
"Hey! That hurt. Jerk!"
"Jerk yourself." Wren was caustic. She'd been a little keyed up, and now the major letdown was making itself known in her bad temper. Scowling, she sat back in the seat.
Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, Tré raised his head. He stopped when his large eyes, dancing mischievously, were level with the top of the seat.
"Say it with me, sex-u-al frus-traay-shun. This is what you're experiencing. Remain calm. Keep your arms and legs inside your clothes. No spontaneous raping. C'mon, say it. Say it! It'll make you feel better," he cajoled.
"The only thing that would make me feel better," Wren retorted, "is if you went away and did not come back for a while."
"Awwww. Now you hurt his feelings." Billie Joe patted Tré on the back as real tears brimmed on the drummer's eyes.
"Boo hoo for him," Mike sulked.
"That's it." Billie Joe started the car. "We're going home, since you two are in a bad mood and need to go sleep it off."
"Yes, mother," Mike and Wren chirped together.
Tré turned to Billie Joe, "Do you really think they are going to go sleep?" The drummer gave the couple a hard stare. "Never mind, I'll make sure you do. Or else," A smile curved the corners of his eyes. "I'll give you a spanking."
"You touch my ass, and I'll have to kick yours," Wren warned.
"So what happens if I grab your boobs?"
"Then I'll kick your ass," Mike replied.
Tré tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Soooo that would mean I get to grab your ass then, right?"
Mike laughed and shook his head, not replying.
When they arrived back at the house, it was not much later than eight. Wren was still feeling out of sorts, so she shut herself up in her room. Maybe Tré was right, she just needed to have a sleep. Maybe she'd listen to some music and then try to relax beforehand.
When she woke up, she was a bit surprised, since she did not even remember nodding off. She frowned. Probably the guys thought she had been really pissed off and was sulking or ignoring them. That would probably lead them (or Tré at the least) to the conclusion, it was "that time of the month." Consequently, they would act all odd, as they did whenever they suspected it, by trying to be calm and unobnoxious, which was actually a bit freaky.
Wait a second.
Wren closed her eyes as a bit of nausea washed over her. It came back, doubled in strength by her nerves. Desperately, she bolted for the window, shoved it open, leaned out and retched.
It's okay, it's okay, she tried to tell herself. It's just a hangover.
A hangover from alcohol I didn't drink.
Oh shit.
Mike blew out an exasperated sigh, and then growled, "Oh for fuck's sake! Get lost!"
Wren was a bit surprised. She did not think that Mike would talk that way to a cop. Then, she heard the laughter.
The irritating flashlight beam was removed from her sight, leaving funny flares as she blinked. Through the spots in her vision, she was able to make out the forms of Billie Joe and Tré, leaning over the front seats. They were both grinning like mad.
"Way to kill the mood," she grumbled as she sat up.
"We weren't killing, we were improving," Tré corrected.
"No. You killed it." Mike crossed his arms. "See, there's its headstone, right under the seats."
"If this is what brothers are like," Wren commented, "I'm glad I don't have any." She paused then complained, "Why?"
"We thought you might like some company. After all, we were just playing here, and you guys drove up." Tré said.
"When you didn't come over to see us," Billie Joe elaborated, "I got worried about the condition of my back seat. Seems like we made it just in time."
Mike, irritated for obvious reasons, tried to strike him. Cheekily, Billie Joe ducked and stuck out his tongue. Taking the opportunity while he was occupied making a face, Wren easily smacked him upside the head. Tré immediately cowered, using the seat as a shield.
"Hey! That hurt. Jerk!"
"Jerk yourself." Wren was caustic. She'd been a little keyed up, and now the major letdown was making itself known in her bad temper. Scowling, she sat back in the seat.
Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, Tré raised his head. He stopped when his large eyes, dancing mischievously, were level with the top of the seat.
"Say it with me, sex-u-al frus-traay-shun. This is what you're experiencing. Remain calm. Keep your arms and legs inside your clothes. No spontaneous raping. C'mon, say it. Say it! It'll make you feel better," he cajoled.
"The only thing that would make me feel better," Wren retorted, "is if you went away and did not come back for a while."
"Awwww. Now you hurt his feelings." Billie Joe patted Tré on the back as real tears brimmed on the drummer's eyes.
"Boo hoo for him," Mike sulked.
"That's it." Billie Joe started the car. "We're going home, since you two are in a bad mood and need to go sleep it off."
"Yes, mother," Mike and Wren chirped together.
Tré turned to Billie Joe, "Do you really think they are going to go sleep?" The drummer gave the couple a hard stare. "Never mind, I'll make sure you do. Or else," A smile curved the corners of his eyes. "I'll give you a spanking."
"You touch my ass, and I'll have to kick yours," Wren warned.
"So what happens if I grab your boobs?"
"Then I'll kick your ass," Mike replied.
Tré tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Soooo that would mean I get to grab your ass then, right?"
Mike laughed and shook his head, not replying.
When they arrived back at the house, it was not much later than eight. Wren was still feeling out of sorts, so she shut herself up in her room. Maybe Tré was right, she just needed to have a sleep. Maybe she'd listen to some music and then try to relax beforehand.
When she woke up, she was a bit surprised, since she did not even remember nodding off. She frowned. Probably the guys thought she had been really pissed off and was sulking or ignoring them. That would probably lead them (or Tré at the least) to the conclusion, it was "that time of the month." Consequently, they would act all odd, as they did whenever they suspected it, by trying to be calm and unobnoxious, which was actually a bit freaky.
Wait a second.
Wren closed her eyes as a bit of nausea washed over her. It came back, doubled in strength by her nerves. Desperately, she bolted for the window, shoved it open, leaned out and retched.
It's okay, it's okay, she tried to tell herself. It's just a hangover.
A hangover from alcohol I didn't drink.
Oh shit.
